


The Ways We Remember

by borealowl



Series: Four Cups of Wine and related stories [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Jewish Good Omens (Good Omens), M/M, Pesach | Passover, Purim, the author is extremely sad about Passover being cancelled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealowl/pseuds/borealowl
Summary: The experience of being a demon is a little different when one keeps being enthusiastically welcomed by the entire congregation of a synagogue. Some of them even know that Crowley is a demon. So he finally agrees to go to the M'gillah reading. It's very noisy. And then it's Passover again.(Part of my ongoing series about Aziraphale and Crowley being adopted by a pair of Jewish lesbians and their precocious daughter.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Four Cups of Wine and related stories [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605910
Comments: 119
Kudos: 345





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Passover ~~is cancelled~~ has gone remote due to pandemic and I've spent the last two weeks having to look at Nazi and Holocaust-related materials at work so I wrote this as a form of catharsis. And to vicariously attend a seder, since I live alone and am social distancing just like everyone else. (I was having a difficult week!)
> 
> Content warning: the characters discuss Nazis and haShoah (the Holocaust) near the end of the first chapter. They don't go into detail about it, but it does get mentioned, so be warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did explanatory notes for this one. You can find them [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/290877103)

Crowley’s phone dings with a text from Naomi:

_Running late. Can you ask Zira to go pick up Miriam from Hebrew School?_

He rolls his eyes.

_Why ask me to ask him?_

_Because I know you don’t like to go in the synagogue and Zira doesn’t have a phone_

That’s true enough. Though actually, he’s not sure he minds going to the synagogue anymore, now that he knows it won’t scorch the scales right off his feet. He’s even considered going to services with the rest of the family, if only out of curiosity, but he likes sleeping in on Saturday mornings more.

Aziraphale leans forward to peer over his shoulder. “Is that Naomi?”

“Yeah, she wants you to pick Miriam up from Hebrew school.”

“Oh, of course. Tell her we’d be delighted.”

He hands the phone to Aziraphale. “Tell her yourself.”

The angel sniffs. “Fine, I will.” He frowns at the phone, and hands it back to Crowley. There’s a new message.

_Dear Naomi. We would be delighted to collect Miriam from Hebrew school on this fine spring day. I wish you safe travels on your journey home. Yours, Aziraphale._

The phone dings again. _You’re right, that was way better._

Aziraphale stands up, gently extricating himself from Crowley and the sofa. “Would you like to accompany me? The weather is lovely, and we could take Miriam out for ice cream on the way home. There’s that lovely new gelato place right near the temple.”

Even after six thousand years, it’s still a joy to watch Aziraphale eat. To watch him be _happy_. And now Crowley can openly share in that happiness, and he suspects that even in another six thousand years, he’ll feel the same joy. Anyway, it is a nice day out.

“Sure.”

He’s expecting it to be a quick errand—show up, meet Miriam near the entrance, and go get gelato. But there’s a buzz of activity around the temple, and the minute they step inside, Aziraphale is waylaid by a middle-aged woman.

“Zira! I’m so glad you’re here.” She pulls him aside. “I wanted to ask you about your comment yesterday morning.” She launches into a long and convoluted question about something Aziraphale apparently said during the Torah study yesterday. Crowley hadn’t even realized that the angel had done Torah study yesterday, but apparently that was one of the things he missed by staying home and sleeping. Aziraphale casts a helpless look over her shoulder and waves Crowley down the hall, presumably towards Miriam’s classroom. And indeed, as he walks down the hallway he can hear the babble of teenaged voices, Miriam’s among them.

It’s a short hallway, and yet it takes him five minutes to travel its length. First he’s stopped by a young man. “Hi, are you new? No wait, you look familiar…”

“Crowley. Miriam’s—“ but the man interrupts him.

“Of course! Miriam’s uncle! Her other one, I mean. It’s great to meet you! I’m Noah. I heard you speak Hebrew? And Yiddish?”

“Er…”

“I only ask because we have a Yiddish folk song night on the third Tuesday of every month. Maybe you’d like to join?”

“I—“

“Oh, sorry, I know you have to pick up Miriam. Here, let me give you my phone number and email. No pressure or anything, but we’re always looking for new members!” Noah scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to Crowley before hurrying down the hall.

Crowley makes it another three feet when he’s stopped by an older middle-aged woman.

“I _know_ I’ve seen you before… oh! You’re Zira’s husband! He’s said so much about you.”

“He has?”

“Oh yes. All of it good, of course.” She winks and gently elbows him. “It’s very sweet. ‘Crowley’ this and ‘Crowley’ that.”

“How nice. But I—“

“Of course, you must be here to pick up Miriam. But before you go, take a Purim basket!” She hands him a small plastic bag with “Happy Purim” written in Hebrew and English. She pats his arm, then bustles away. Slightly dazed, Crowley looks inside the bag. It appears to be full of candy and snack food. Well, Aziraphale will probably like it.

This time he only gets four steps in before he’s stopped by another older woman. This one is familiar. He still rarely bothers to remember anyone’s name, but Sarah had successfully lured Aziraphale (and thus Crowley) to dinner at her house with the promise of dinner and recipes. Aziraphale had been thoroughly charmed by both Sarah and her husband, and delighted with the food, and had accepted subsequent invitations to dinner and even brunch. Eventually Crowley had given in and learned their names. 

“Crowley! How wonderful to see you here!” She steps forward and gives him a loose hug and an air kiss near his cheek. “Were you looking for the rabbi? Oh, no, of course, you’re here for Miriam. Where’s your darling husband? I had something to ask him. Though I don’t see why I can’t ask you, come to think of it. Ab and I were wondering if the two of you had plans for Pesach.”

“Other than with Yael and Naomi?” He’s slightly confused.

“Yes, yes, but they’re doing the _first_ night’s seder. We’re just doing family the first night—though of course you and Zira would be welcome if you weren’t at Yael and Naomi’s—but we’re also hosting a _second_ night seder, and we were hoping you would come. And Yael and Naomi and Miriam as well.”

“Er—“

“Of course, I know you’ll have to talk it over with Zira first. But I hope you can make it. I’ll email you the details—do I have your email? Never mind, I know I have Zira’s, and I can cc Naomi on it too. Oh!” she pauses for a moment. “Misloach manot! Technically it’s a day early, but I’m sure you won’t mind.” Before Crowley has time to react, she hands him another little bag, pats his arm, and bustles off.

Crowley has just started back down the hall when a youngish woman sees him and smiles. “Hi, are you new?”

By the time he manages to reach Miriam’s classroom, Crowley has acquired two more Purim baskets, declined another seder invitation, and made an unidentifiable noise when asked if he’s interested in coming to Israeli dance night. Shifting all of the bags to one hand (with a hissed threat that they had better stay closed), he opens the door and spots Miriam. Fortunately, the teacher is too busy to ask him anything, and just waves goodbye as Miriam leaves.

“Mom texted me, but she said Aziraphale was coming. Did something happen?”

“No, he’s just by the front door. I hope. Why is it so busy today?” he grouses. “It’s a Sunday. I thought Saturday was the big day.”

“Purim prep for tonight! And Hebrew school. Oh, and there’s always meetings and stuff going on, and I’m pretty sure the book club meets later in the afternoon. And there might be more stuff that I don’t know about. We could check the calendar, I guess.”

“Never mind, I don’t—” and he is interrupted yet again, this time by an older man.

“Miriam! And...Crowley, wasn’t it? I remember you from Miriam’s bat mitzvah. Would you two like purim baskets?”

Miriam’s face lights up. “Yes, please!” she says, before Crowley can decline, and soon he’s carrying a fifth bag.

“You want any of these?” he asks Miriam, holding up the bags.

“Nah, I already have a bunch of my own.” She points to her backpack, which does look rather full. “Anyway, Aziraphale’ll be sad if you don’t give them to him.”

Crowley sighs, knowing that she’s right. He starts to walk faster, wanting to unload the snack bags as soon as possible. And he’s a little worried that Aziraphale hasn’t caught up with them.

A middle-aged woman steps out into the hallway. Crowley doesn’t know her, but she seems to recognize him.

“Oh! It’s Miriam and Crowley. Would you—”

“Nope!” he cuts her off, walking faster.

Miriam grabs his hand and jogs to keep up. “Sorry Jane, we’re running late!” she calls over her shoulder.

When they reach the lobby, they see Aziraphale, talking to a different woman, and now holding three bags of his own.

“Oh, and there they both are,” he says. “Please excuse me, Susan, but we really must be going.”

“Of course, of course. And thank you for the basket!” she holds up a bag and smiles at him.

“You’ve been giving out misloach manot?” Miriam asks Aziraphale once they get outside.

“Well, people started giving them to me, and it seemed rude not to reciprocate.”

“Did you bring them with you from home?”

Aziraphale looks embarrassed. “Not exactly…”

Crowley scowls. “So you were just standing there miracling up snacks for everyone while I did all the work?”

“I’d hardly call walking down a hallway work.”

“It is when people stop you every three steps. What _is_ it with these people? Are they always like this?”

“Yes” say Aziraphale and Miriam simultaneously.

*****

“Yes,” says Naomi, once they’re back at home. She sighs. “Sorry about that. I’ll have another talk with them about boundaries. They mean well, it’s just…they’re all just very excited to finally meet you. And recruit you for, well, everything.”

“Maybe I should just tell them I’m a demon,” he grumbles.

“I don’t think that would help,” says Yael. “It would just be another chance for them to be inclusive.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Naomi adds. “I’ll talk to them.”

“Ehh, it’s fine.” It was mildly irritating, but everyone he’d encountered that morning was essentially harmless. And Aziraphale had been pleased by the additional snacks.

“Well,” Naomi starts to grin, “If they haven’t scared you off yet, you could always come with us to the Megillah reading tomorrow night.”

Miriam’s eyes get wide and she starts vibrating with excitement. “Say yes sayyessayyessayyes!”

“ _Fine_.”

“Yaaaaay!!!” She bounces and waves her hands, the way she often does when excited.

 _“_ But no costume,” he says.

“That’s okay! Wait until you see mine!”

Naomi has to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh, and Yael bites her lip. Crowley looks at them suspiciously, but they both shake their heads.

*****

The following evening, he learns why. Miriam comes bouncing down the stairs wearing what appears to be a giant snake costume.

“Look!” she says, holding out an apple. “I’m you!”

Neither Yael nor Naomi will look him in the face. Crowley suspects that it’s less out of embarrassment and more because they’ll start laughing if they do. Aziraphale has no such compunctions.

“You are indeed! If I still had my sword it would be just like being back in the Garden.”

“I am not green!” says Crowley. “I was never green. I am an extremely tasteful black. Look!” He slides into snake form, noting smugly that he’s still taller than Miriam. He hears a choking sound and feels a brief flash of panic. He’s never actually transformed in front of Yael or Naomi, and only now does it occur to him that they might be scared. But a quick look shows that the while the sound is coming from Naomi, she’s hardly frightened. In fact, she’s laughing so hard that Yael has to hold her up.

“Oh dear, he’s right.” Aziraphale frowns for a moment, then smiles again as Miriam’s costume turns black and the girl starts to giggle. “There, problem solved.”

“I used to wonder how on earth you two thought you were being subtle,” says Yael, who has managed to keep some semblance of composure. “I don’t wonder that anymore.”

Crowley tries to glare at her, remembers that his facial expressions are rather limited in snake form, and shifts back. “Weren’t we going somewhere?”

Naomi finally catches her breath and stands back up. “You’re right, we’re going to be late!”

They all hurry out the door and down the sidewalk. Just outside the temple, Yael catches Crowley’s eye and drops back, trailing the others. Crowley slows down to join her.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, fine.”

“I hope you’re not upset by Miriam’s costume.”

“Nah, ss’a good joke.”

“Not just that. Do you remember last year, when she went as a scientist because of Amy?” He does remember. Miriam’s favorite aunt is a chemistry professor, and had given her niece an old lab coat and safety goggles for the costume. Crowley’s offer to contribute the ingredients for chemical weapons had been immediately vetoed by all three humans and one angel, but Miriam had cheerfully let him make the water in her test tube glow an alarming shade of green. “She looks up to you.”

“Er.”

She gives him a sidelong glance and smiles. “You’re doing a good job.”

“Ngk.” After thirteen years, he’s mostly managed to stop feeling resentful when his humans or Aziraphale says something that causes that warm twitchy feeling, but he’s still never sure how to respond.

“Oh, by the way, you might want these.” She holds something out and Crowley takes it automatically.

“Earplugs?”

“You have sensitive hearing, right?”

“How can you tell?”

“Because you like to listen in on conversations and join them at the most awkward possible time. The only way you could manage that is if you had either supernaturally good hearing or could read minds. And if you could read minds you wouldn’t have been so shocked that we knew you weren’t human.”

“I can read some things,” he admits. “Mostly when people really want something.”

“And you couldn’t tell what Naomi wanted to ask you for all these years?”

“Wanting to ask personal questions is just Naomi’s default state. I mostly tune it out.”

“Hah, fair enough. You probably should use the earplugs, though, it gets rather loud.” She takes his arm companionably and they hurry into the synagogue.

As soon as they step inside, Crowley understands what she means. There are costumed children running and shouting, and adults (with and without costumes) talking loudly, and someone has a giant stick with bells glued on, and another person has what appears to be a trumpet mouthpiece. “I see.”

“Oh no, it’s going to get much noisier.” Yael gestures toward a table, where’s an entire box of plastic and metal things that children and adults are taking. A nervous-looking person standing near the box tentatively takes one out. They swing the device around a bit, and Crowley sees the uncertainty in their face turn to delight as an obnoxiously loud scratchy rattle emerges. Yael smiles and waves at them, and they shyly wave back.

“That’s Sam,” Yael says, as she and Crowley find the other three. “They just started taking conversion classes last month, and they’re still a little nervous, I think. But they’re really smart and engaged, and they ask great questions, so I hope they stay.”

Crowley looks back over at the person as he sits next to Aziraphale. It doesn’t strain his demonic powers in the slightest to read what they most want. They’re fizzing with curiosity and the desire to learn. But even stronger is a deep aching longing to feel welcome, and to belong. He nudges Aziraphale.

“Yes, dearest?”

“The brown-haired person in the back corner. Do your angel thing at them.”

“My what?”

“You know, when you smile and fill them with peace and well-being and stuff.”

“That’s just the natural human reaction to friendliness.”

“ _Angel_.”

“Oh, very well.” The angel turns and spots Sam, who is scanning the room nervously. They notice Aziraphale looking their way and offer a hesitant smile. Aziraphale beams back and Crowley can feel the warmth radiate off him. He can also see the effect on Sam, who relaxes and gives back a more open smile in return. A minute later, Sarah spots them and waves them over, and they get up and move closer to the front to sit with her and Ab. Crowley hasn’t put in the earplugs yet, so he can hear Sarah’s cheerful welcome, and a few minutes later, her invitation for Sam to join them for Passover.

“That was a…” Yael pauses, and Crowley can tell that she’s searching for a word that isn’t four letters. “… _generous_ thing to do.”

“Wasn’t me, it was all Zira.”

“In that case, I’d say it was a kind thing to do. But I think that instigating the act counts as well.”

Before Crowley can reply, he sees the rabbi signal for everyone’s attention.

“Now is a good time to put those earplugs in,” says Yael.

A few minutes later, he can see why. The man reading the scroll isn’t doing so _that_ loudly, though he’s using ridiculous voices and singsong intonation. But every time he says “Vashti” or “Esther,” people cheer and hold up signs with the women’s faces. Then the reader says “Haman” and the walls shake with the cacophony—booing, hissing, the blat of the trumpet mouthpiece, and every noisemaker in the room going off at once. Crowley puts the earplugs in. They help, a little.

Amazingly, it keeps happening. The reader says “Haman,” the entire building shakes. If anything, the noise gets worse each time, as everyone starts to get a little carried away. Someone in front of them blows into a conch shell, producing a remarkable blast of sound, and Naomi giggles. “It sounds almost like a shofar.”

Even Aziraphale is joining in, rattling his noisemaker and cheerfully booing. Then again, the angel tends to get into the spirit of things, and he never did like Haman much.

For that matter, neither did Crowley, who’d spent more time in the man’s company and quickly learned that he was even more unpleasant once you got to know him. So the next time the name comes up, he joins in the cacophony.

“Ooh,” says a young woman sitting behind him. “That’s some impressive hissing.”

“Thankss.”

*****

Naomi and Yael aren’t hosting a party this year, but there’s one at the temple. Drinks for the adults, candy for the children, and piles of hamentaschen for everyone, with a dozen different fillings. Aziraphale tries one of each. Crowley sticks to drinks.

It’s not that late when they return to the brownstone (everyone but Miriam still a little tipsy), and they all end up in the living room, laughing over the night’s events.

“So what did you think?” Naomi asks Crowley.

“It was loud.”

“I did warn you,” says Yael.

“And very silly,” he continues. “I knew it was going to be silly, you’ve told me about it before, but I didn’t think it was going to be _that_ silly.”

“But didja have fun?” Miriam asks.

He makes a show of thinking about it. “Yeah,” he finally admits. “I’ll go with you again next year, if you want.”

She punches the air. “Success!”

“Did you know,” he says idly, not really thinking, “that the Nazis were strangely obsessed with Purim?”

Yael gives him an odd look. “I did, actually.”

“ _I_ didn’t know that,” says Miriam, frowning. “What do you mean, anyway?”

“Do you want to talk about something sad on a festive night?” Yael asks her daughter. Miriam nods, serious.

“I want to know. Even if it’s sad.”

Yael nods. “That’s reasonable. Naomi knows the history better than I do.” She looks over at her wife, who picks up the thread.

“Not to get into the really sad stuff, but Hitler banned Purim entirely, and a lot of Nazi massacres happened on different Purims.”

“But why?”

“I’ve always wondered why as well,” says Aziraphale.

Naomi grins. “What, you didn’t just ask the Nazis you met in the forties?”

He looks startled. “How did you know?”

Naomi and Yael exchange a quick glance. “Okay,” says Naomi, “First of all, that was supposed to be a joke, and second of all, I am absolutely sure that neither of you were working with the Nazis, so I will ignore that tantalizing glimpse into your past—for now—and answer my daughter’s question.”

“ _Thank_ you,” says Miriam.

“So, remember that this isn’t my period of expertise, so this is mostly just what I remember from old conversations. But! There are actually a few explanations I’ve heard for why they hated Purim so much. One is that it’s a story of Jewish self-defense—not just leaving, the way we did in Egypt, but actually killing our oppressors. If you’re planning stirring up hate and mass-murdering Jews, then a celebration of our fighting back is threatening. Another is that the Nazis identified with the Persian empire, what with the whole “Aryan” thing, and so a story where Jews are killing Persians had extra symbolic weight.”

“I think they just hated seeing us celebrate in public,” says Yael. “Some people see Jewish happiness and want to destroy it.” Naomi nods.

“There’s that, too. Either way, Hitler said that if the Nazis lost the war, it would be celebrated with a second Purim.”

“But we don’t,” says Miriam. “We have Yom haShoah instead, and that’s all serious.” She makes a face. “And they show depressing movies in Hebrew school the Sunday before and I always end up crying.” She bites her lip and looks down. “Okay, yeah, now I’m a little sad.”

“Sorry, hon. But you did ask.”

In the silence that follows, Crowley remembers that Naomi has four older sisters and no aunts or uncles. He recalls dinners with Naomi’s parents, Deb telling old family stories about her uncles, every story ending with “Of course, I never knew him.” Harry never telling family stories at all.

Crowley remembers the past, but only because he has to. He was there. If he’s ever doused in holy water, all those memories will burn away with him, leaving nothing behind. He’s somehow never realized, until now, that human memories can leave their traces on subsequent generations, that humans can walk around carrying half-healed wounds from before they were even born. He should have noticed it before, there’s a thousand little clues that now make sense to him, but there’s still so much to learn about humans, and he wasn’t thinking. And now there’s this horrible silence.

“Did I ever tell you,” Crowley says, desperate to break the mood, “about the time I blew up some Nazis?”

“Yes,” says Miriam.

“No!” Naomi exclaims. “Please tell me it’s related to the ones Zira met!”

“Oh yes,” says Crowley, slowly smiling. “Very much so.”

He tells the story, exaggerating Aziraphale’s part for comedic effect. It seems to work, especially with the angel’s indignant reactions—“I didn’t say it like _that,_ Crowley! _”_ “How would you know what my face looked like, you hadn’t even entered the building yet.” And he stands up to demonstrate his hopping dance across the consecrated ground, which has all three humans giggling.

“Wait,” says Miriam when the story ends. “I’ve heard this story a bunch of times, but I just realized something. Why was it okay for Zira to use a miracle to protect both of you from the bomb, but not to save himself from the Nazis?”

“Good question!” says Crowley, grinning at Aziraphale. He already knows the answer, but he’s happy to make the angel say it.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t want to deal with the reprimand for using a miracle, but I couldn’t let Crowley be discorporated. His side had even worse paperwork than mine.”

Yael looks at Crowley. “So your strategy was to put yourself in danger so that he’d be forced to save you both?”

“ _And_ get credit for bombing a church, can’t forget that part.”

“But then _you_ used another miracle to save my books,” Aziraphale says.

Naomi shakes her head. “If that’s how you two used to flirt, no wonder it took you six thousand years to get together.”

“Wait—” says Crowley, but he’s not able to protest further, because, well, she’s right. At least now they’ve cheered up.

“You know,” he adds, feeling awkward but determined to say it. “If you ever need it, I’ll blow up Nazis for you three as well. Or do something, anyway. Might find a less dramatic way of doing it. But they wouldn’t be a problem anymore, I can promise that.”

Naomi looks genuinely touched. “That’s extremely sweet, Crowley. Weird, but sweet.” Before he can complain, she holds up a hand. “Nope, five letters, it’s allowed.”

“Hopefully we will never need to take you up on it,” Yael adds. “But thank you.” She stands up. “Anyone want hot chocolate?”

Everyone but Crowley raises their hand.

“Well,” says Naomi, “I refuse to end this night talking about Nazis, so who wants to play Uno?”

Everyone—including Crowley—raises their hand.

Naomi adds a dash of whiskey to the adults’ cocoa, saying, “It’s Purim, no one’s expecting us to show up to work on time tomorrow anyway,” and they play for a while. Crowley entertains everyone with blatant cheating that somehow still ends in his losing every time, probably because he tells Miriam everything he’s doing, saying that he’s teaching her a valuable skill. Miriam doesn’t follow Crowley’s advice, but nonetheless has a run of good luck that could almost be called miraculous, though Crowley knows that neither he nor the angel has used any miracles. Aziraphale is appalled at the whole thing, or at least pretends to be, and Naomi and Yael are just very amused. By the time they’re done playing, everyone is tired and giggly, and Crowley allows himself to relax. 

Aziraphale heads upstairs, but before Crowley can follow him, Yael pulls him aside. “Crowley. Just so you know, we’re not upset.”

“Seemed that way, though.”

She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I mean, yes, it’s an upsetting thing. But you weren’t bringing it up to make us feel bad—you were sharing part of your lived experience.”

“I didn’t—“ he starts and stops, starts again. “I was in England most of the time. I didn’t even know exactly what was going on, except that it was terrible. I stayed away, because, the Spanish Inquisition, I went to see what I was getting a commendation for, and I didn’t know until I saw. And humans are always doing something terrible, I just tried not to pay attention because I like you and I want to keep liking you. Humans, I mean, not you personally.”

“What do you want me to say, Crowley? I don’t blame you for not stopping the Nazis singlehandedly. And we’ve all been guilty of looking away from atrocities when we don’t feel like there’s anything we can do. We’re expected to do our part, however small, and accept that it won’t fix everything, and keep doing it anyway. ”

“Yes, yes, but that’s not my point. My point is, I didn’t mean to talk about it like it wasn’t real. I do remember it—they didn’t let me spend the entire time in England—and I didn’t even know what to write in my report. I mean, software licenses, those are brilliant, Downstairs could learn a lot from them, but this sort of thing, I don’t even think they can understand it. They gave me credit because they know an atrocity when they see one, but they didn’t understand. They don’t have imaginations, you know? You need an imagination, or it’s just numbers. Imaginations are terrible. But that’s not my point either. My _point_ is, I forgot how you remember things. I know it was horrifying, I knew even at the time, I just didn’t think talking about it would make you sad. On your holiday.”

“Hey.” She waits until he meets her eyes before continuing, “I believe you. I know you care about people, even people you don’t know personally. And as I said before, we’re not upset with you. Besides, it’s not as though you’re the first person to make that connection on the holiday.” She smiles. “Actually, Lori said something similar, the first time they came over for Purim. And they were trying to upset us. They spent a lot of time trying to pick fights, the first few months we knew them.”

“Not that we know anyone _else_ like that,” says Naomi. When Crowley refuses to give her the reaction she’s obviously hoping for, she changes the subject. “By the way, I had a thought. Now that we’re not pretending that you have to buy a plane ticket to get here, do you want to start coming over for Shabbat dinner more often? I mean, you don’t have to come every week, or even at all, but if you want to…”

He looks away again, wishing he had his glasses to hide behind. “Yeah, uh, probably. I mean, if you make that raisin challah, I don’t know how I’d keep Aziraphale away.”

Yael smiles. “I’ll put raisins on the grocery list.”

Upstairs, Crowley is about to open the bedroom door when he hears Miriam behind him.

“You left these in the living room,” she says, holding out his glasses.

“Oh, thanks.” He takes them, and she turns back to the stairs. “Hey, Miriam.”

“Yeah?”

“I always want to know too. Even when it’s sad.”

“Do you ever wish you didn’t?”

He considers this. “It has gotten me in a lot of trouble,” he admits. “But I’d still rather know.”

“Yeah.”

They consider this for a moment.

“Anyway,” he says, “Go to bed. Growing humans need their sleep.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and heads up toward her bedroom on the the third floor.

At some point, he’s not sure when, they all stopped referring to the second floor bedroom as the “guest room” and started thinking of it as Aziraphale and Crowley’s. Probably when Naomi and Yael moved the fold-out couch to the study and put an actual bed in the room. Aziraphale is lying on that bed, reading as usual. When Crowley enters the room and falls backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, the angel sets his book aside.

“It has been a rather busy day, hasn’t it?” he says.

“Eh.”

“Although,” the angel continues, sounding slightly miffed, “I don’t see why you felt the need to teach Miriam how to cheat at cards. I know you’re not actually trying to corrupt her.”

Crowley sits up. “It made them laugh. But I mostly just did it to annoy you.”

“Well, it worked. You can be very irritating when you choose to be.”

He grins. “You like it, though.”

Aziraphale sighs, then smiles. “I suppose I do. Though it’s more that I like you.”

Crowley leans in for a kiss.

When they draw back, Aziraphale chuckles. “And I do enjoy thwarting your wiles, you know.”

“What do you mean? I _know_ you didn’t use a miracle.”

Aziraphale’s smile turns smug as he hands Crowley one of the draw-four cards from the game. “It seems my sleight of hand is better than you thought.”

Crowley stares at the card, aghast. “You cheated.”

“Hardly. I merely counteracted your own manipulation.”

“You gave Miriam all those cards to use on me. That’s _cheating_. You _cheated_.”

“Hmph. You’re just angry that you didn’t notice.”

“You’re an _angel_ and you scolded me for cheating, while you were the one dealing off the bottom of the deck.”

“You’re starting to be irritating again.”

Crowley reaches out both hands and grasps Aziraphale’s shoulders, staring at him. “I love you so blessed much.”

Aziraphale leans forward to rest his forehead against Crowley’s. “I love you too.”

“Even when I’m being irritating?”

“Always.”

*****

They do start visiting for Shabbat dinners—Aziraphale is not only persuaded by the raisin challah, he’s also thrilled to have an excuse to close his store every Saturday. Crowley reminds him that, due to time zones, he could leave his store open for most of Saturday and still be in New York well before Shabbat, but Aziraphale pretends not to hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanatory notes are [here](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/290878066).

And then, just a few weeks later, it’s the day before Passover and Crowley and Aziraphale are conscripted into the effort to rid the house of chametz. 

“You realize we could just make it vanish for you, right?” Crowley asks Yael. She shakes her head.

“That would be missing the point.”

“Isn’t the point to get all the bread out of the house?” He remembers something. “Don’t you also throw bread in the water at Rosh Hashanah? What do you have against bread, anyway?”

“Getting an early start on the questions, I see,” says Naomi, bustling past him to dump an armful of frozen food in a cooler. He sticks his tongue out at her then turns back to Yael.

“Well?”

“We do, actually. Or God does, anyway. Leavened foods are symbolic of pride and evil intent. That’s why it was forbidden to offer chametz on the Temple altar.”

“I remember that!” Aziraphale says, lifting up a chair for Miriam to look under. She grins and shouts “found one!” Crowley glances over to see her holding up a rather dusty biscuit.

“Still doing the hide-and-seek?” he asks.

“No, actually,” says Yael, looking rueful. “We just haven’t had time to clean lately and that must have rolled under there. And to answer your first question, doing the work of finding it and cleaning our houses is a chance to think about the ways we need to root out and destroy our own evils.”

“Easier for some than others,” he mutters.

“Oh, Crowley.” She sighs, but her face is sympathetic. “ _You’re_ not chametz. You’re not nearly puffy enough, for one thing.” There’s a snort of laughter from Naomi, who is carrying another armful of food, but Crowley ignores it.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to speed up the process? We’re going to spend tomorrow night talking about miracles, what’s one more? Get an early start on the things.”

Yael tilts her head to one side. “Just how embarrassed would you be if I said that having you both here was all the miracle we need?” She studies his face, and he starts to wonder if letting the humans see him without glasses is really such a good idea. Then again, they’ve always been good at reading his moods. Crowley tries to think of something to say, but Yael takes pity on him first.

“I thought as much. Now come help me kasher the oven.”

“Can I use hellfire to do it?”

“Missing the point, Crowley.”

“How about regular fire?”

She stops. “You know what? Sure.” She resumes walking. “But you’re still going to have to help me scrub the racks.”

*****

“Who’s coming tonight?” Crowley asks, helping Yael lower the middle leaf of the big table into place. Aziraphale, Naomi, and Miriam have taken over the kitchen, leaving set-up to the two of them.

“It’s a smaller group than usual—the Silbergelds can’t make it, and neither can the Graftons. Only eleven people total.”

“Counting Elijah?”

“No, if he shows up it’ll be twelve.”

“If he shows up, we are going to have _words_. Bastard still owes me a shekel.”

Yael raises an eyebrow and waits.

“Okay, I can’t actually remember how much it was. But he did stick me with his bar tab once. No, twice. Both times saying he’d pay me back next week, and then when I went looking for him everyone said he’d fled the country.”

“Did the money actually matter to you?”

“Nah, it’s the principle of the thing. And I think Aziraphale was ordered to keep tabs on him or something, because whenever Elijah left, he’d disappear too.” He does not tell Yael that he’d only been drinking with Elijah in the hopes of running into Aziraphale. Some things are too embarrassing to admit, even after a couple millennia. They’d barely known each other, only saw each other every few centuries, and he’d still gone drinking with a bloody prophet on the off chance he might see the angel.

Yael raises her eyebrow again, then goes to get the tablecloth.

“So who are the other eleven?” Crowley asks. He pulls the tablecloth off-center and grins at Yael’s exasperated look before helping her straighten it again.

“Well, there’s the five of us, of course. And Lori and Mirka are in town.”

“Really?” He plays it cool, but this is good news. He hasn’t seen them since Miriam’s bat mitzvah, and before that it had been over a year. “Don’t see why they had to move all the way to the other side of the country.”

“You could go visit them, you know. They’d love to have you.” She hands him a stack of plates to lay out on the table.

“Think we might tell them,” he mumbles.

“What, that you’re going to visit them? That _is_ the polite thing—oh, no, I understand now. That’s not a bad idea.”

“Anyway, who else is coming?”

“Two people you don’t know—students of Naomi’s—plus Rukiye. Oh, and Sam.”

“Sam?”

Yes, Sam. You met them last month at the Megillah reading. Brown-haired, mid-late thirties, kind of shy?”

He shakes his head.

“The conversion student. You were nice, er, generous towards them”

“Oh, them. I thought they were going to Sarah’s seder.”

“They are. Ab and Sarah’s is on the second night, remember? I hope you remember, because Aziraphale and Naomi apparently said we were all going tomorrow night.”

Crowley rolls his eyes so hard that one of the plates cracks from second-hand annoyance. He waves a hand to fix it.

*****

Miraculously (not that Crowley or Aziraphale will admit to it), all the preparations are completed before any guests arrive, and everyone gets a few minutes to rest. Crowley lounges on the couch, idly flipping through one of the haggadot.

Naomi plops on the couch next to him. “Does it bring back memories?”

“Sure, of the last twelve years you’ve used almost the same one.” She makes a face and he grins. “Yes, I was there for most of it. Hell told me to keep an eye on the whole thing.”

“I was there the entire time,” says Aziraphale with a sigh. “It was dreadful.”

“You warned me that the plagues were coming, I remember that. Even though you were still pretending you didn’t like me.”

“Yes, and you laughed when I told you about the frogs.” He shudders and says to Naomi, “Frogs sound perfectly innocuous until every surface is covered in them.”

“I didn’t laugh at the last one, though. You know how I feel about killing kids.”

“Talking about the plagues?” asks Yael as she enters the room.

“Just reminiscing,” says Aziraphale. “Naomi asked whether we remembered the events of Exodus.”

“You followed them through the Red Sea, right?” Crowley asks Aziraphale, who nods. “Thought so. I didn’t. Heard all the heavenly singing, though.”

Miriam looks up from her novel. “But not you, right?” she asks Aziraphale. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Of course not,” says the angel. “I tried to point out that it was inappropriate, but Gabriel refused to listen until he and the others were reprimanded. I’m not sure he ever forgave me for being in the right.”

Naomi snorts. “He sounds like a jerk.” She turns to Crowley. “So you didn’t follow us after that?”

He waves a hand. “Oh, I caught up with everyone around Sinai.”

“Don’t tell me you were responsible for the golden calf,” says Yael, sounding more amused than accusatory.

“Who, me? Of course not, that was all on you. I was going to try something like that,” he admits, “but I didn’t have the chance. By the time I showed up to say ‘ _How_ long did Moses say he was going to be again?’ everyone had already tossed all their jewelry in a pot. All I had to do was stand around and get drunk.”

“Well, we are a stiffnecked people, apparently.” says Yael. “So, if you left before the Red Sea and didn’t show up again until Mt. Sinai, does that mean you weren’t around for the battle with the Amalekites?”

Crowley looks at her, wide-eyed and confused. “The who?”

Yael starts to reply, then sees his grin. “Yes, yes, you’re very clever.”

*****

Rukiye arrives first, cheerful as ever.

“When is the grand opening?” Aziraphale asks her. She frowns for a moment.

“It’s supposed to be next month, but there was a problem with the wiring and now it looks like the city inspectors aren’t free to come back for another six weeks.”

“Try calling tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggests. “I hear that they’ve had some unexpected openings in their schedules lately.”

“Oh really.” Says Crowley. “Where did you hear that?”

The angel waves a hand. “Oh, you know, around.”

Rukiye gives them a strange look, but agrees to try.

After she leaves the room to greet Naomi in the kitchen, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. “At some point she’s going to notice that every time she complains about paperwork around us it somehow gets fixed.”

“The poor girl has suffered enough in her life,” says the angel. “A small blessing or two won’t go amiss.”

“You just want her bakery to open so you can eat there.”

“Well, that too.”

“She already does suspect something,” says Yael. “She asked me if you were part of a crime syndicate or something. I told her no, but you did have some connections here and there.”

“That’s almost accurate,” says Crowley. “Used to have a couple of mayors and governors on our payroll.”

“Hm,” says Aziraphale. “Which ones? I wonder if there was any overlap with mine.” They compare lists, and Aziraphale has only one that doesn’t appear on Crowley’s. Crowley has eight that were only on his list, but he’s always liked America more.

“Humans are amazing,” Crowley tells Yael.

“Thank you. I think. So is this the case for every state, or is New York special?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “We’d probably come with similar results in many states, but not all. Crowley’s side—his old side—had a virtual monopoly on Illinois for the entire twentieth century.”

“Hmm. I would have expected you to say it was Jersey,” says Yael. Both the angel and the demon look at her in horror.

“Oh my dear girl,” says Aziraphale. “Oh, no. We’ve never done anything with New Jersey.” He looks to Crowley for confirmation.

Crowley nods. “What would be the point?”

*****

The other guests all arrive soon after, and they begin the seder. It’s strange how comfortable it feels now, after this short span of years. Crowley fills his first glass of wine to the brim and drains it down—at this point, it would be breaking tradition to do otherwise. Then the hand-washing. Normally, he gets up to wash his hands in the kitchen sink, just in case the water might be construed as holy, but this time he turns to Yael.

“Hey, Rabbi. D’you think this counts as holy water? You know, for demon-destroying purposes?” He speaks softly enough that no one else is likely to overhear. Not that they would anyway, since Lori and Mirka have started an argument over the best kind of matzoh. It’s comforting to see that over a decade of living together hasn’t changed them.

Yael considers the question. “Well, we don’t bless the water. For this part of the seder, we don’t even say the blessing for washing hands, and that blessing isn’t about the water itself, it’s about the commandment to wash hands. And of course purification is different from holiness anyway. So I don’t think the water itself has any inherent holiness—it’s just water. Its value lies in making things clean. So it shouldn’t be any different from washing your hands in the sink, or monopolizing the second floor bathroom to take a ninety-minute shower. To pick an example at random.” Crowley grins. The second floor bathroom has a nice shower, and it’s even nicer now that he’s made some improvements. Yael smiles back, then suddenly looks uncharacteristically nervous. “Of course, this is all in theory, please don’t risk—Crowley!”

She’s too late. Crowley has already gotten his hands wet. Nothing else happens, which is pretty much what he expected, after his earlier experiment with the synagogue. Yael looks slightly stunned, and raises an eyebrow at her.

“What? Were you going to tell me not to trust a rabbi?”

Naomi and Miriam, seeing what he’s just done, clap. Aziraphale joins in.

“Wow,” says Lori. “I haven’t seen this much excitement over hand-washing since kindergarten.”

“You didn’t learn to wash your hands until kindergarten?” Mirka asks them, appalled.

“Not all of us were raised orthodox, Mirka.”

“I’m not talking about ritual, I’m talking about basic hygiene.”

And they’re arguing again.

“Is the clapping normal?” Rukiye asks Sam. They shrug.

“Not at the seders I’ve been to, and not according to the reading Rabbi Wolf is having me do. So I’m guessing not. Is this your first seder?”

“It is! Naomi and Yael were kind enough to invite me.”

Naomi smiles. “Well, you did buy all of our chametz, it seemed rude not to.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. Just so long as you buy it back when the holiday is over—I’m going to need that space for bakery business once the permits are worked out.” She looks mildly embarrassed. “Well, most of it, anyway. I may have eaten one of the poppyseed rolls. But only because they’d be stale soon.”

“It’s your chametz,” Naomi assures her. “You can eat as much as you want.”

They dip their parsley in salt water and Mirka elbows Lori. “Tell them,” she says. Lori sighs.

“Last year we went to a seder with one of Mirka’s step-cousins, the ones from the non-Orthodox side, and it was very, uh, Portland. So I made a joke about how, since it was the west coast, they probably used kale for karpas.”

Mirka grins. “And everyone went, ‘um, yes? Is that going to be a problem?’ It was extremely awkward.”

“The gluten-free matzoh wasn’t bad, though.”

Mirka takes exception to this, and they go back to arguing about matzoh, this time drawing the college students into the debate as well. The young woman appears to have appointed herself defender of the Manischewitz brand, while the young man is insisting that anything you can buy in a standard grocery store isn’t even real matzah and anyone who claims to like it is motivated solely by nostalgia. Lori and Mirka are delighted. It takes Yael a few minutes to calm everyone down enough to break off and wrap the afikoman, Miriam watching it like a hawk. The last three years, there have been younger children at the seder, but this year she’s the only one under twenty, and she is clearly not going to miss this chance.

Crowley had only been partly joking when he’d pretended that the Haggadah only reminded him of the past fourteen years. His memories of the exodus from Egypt are over three thousand years old, and his memories of these seders are much more recent. But also, there’s a rhythm to the seder that he’s grown accustomed to. The questions, the Four Children, the traditional argument over whether the wicked child deserves their label. The story that doesn’t precisely match his memories of the event, but he’s learning that the telling and retelling is its own form of memory. The dayenu song, which he used to sing only under duress, and that he now gleefully joins in on, partly because it made Miriam happy when she was a toddler and partly because he can appreciate a good earworm as much as the next demon. (More, if the next demon is Hastur, who never did learn to appreciate the demonic value of getting a song stuck in someone’s head for days on end.) He doesn’t recite the blessings or praise God, of course, but he’s come to enjoy participating. (Yet another thing that he’d never be able to admit to Hell.)

Of course, humans are never satisfied, and every year Naomi and Yael try something new. Sometimes they add a new poem or story to the haggadah, even though they don’t have time to read everything that’s already in there. One year they passed out little finger puppets for each of the plagues, and Crowley will forever treasure the memory of five delighted children and one appalled angel. This year, apparently they’re interested in self-reflection.

“So before we get to the meal, I have something I’d like us to consider,” says Yael. “Actually, it was Naomi’s idea, but I think it’s a good one. As many of you know, the Hebrew word we use for Egypt, Mitzrayim, can also mean something like ‘the narrow place’ or ‘the narrow straits.’ And Pesach is a good time to consider the other narrow places in our lives and hearts, and how we have escaped them.” She nods at Naomi to continue.

“So we thought it could be nice to reflect on that, and anyone who felt like sharing their reflections could do so. But feel free to pass if you’re not comfortable.”

“I’ll start,” says Yael. “I’d allowed myself to grow complacent in my relationships with my loved ones, and not question. I let my desire to respect privacy become an excuse not to give them space to be open. For me, this is a good time to remember that our relationships with each other can grow and change, without losing any of the love and respect that we share.” It would have been an impressive feat to give this speech without ever looking at Crowley or Aziraphale. It’s even more impressive that Yael manages to look at them exactly as long and intently as she does everyone else at the table, with just the appropriate amount of significant eye contact.

Naomi goes next, and talks about her relationship with her sisters, and they way that she’s just now, in her early fifties, starting to break out of the role of youngest daughter. The young woman passes, and the young man talks about his struggle to find an authentic and healthy Jewish masculinity to express. Mirka talks about how hard it is to adapt to the Pacific Northwest, which has many fine characteristics but is far from her family and somewhat lacking in its kosher food selection. Lori is quiet for a moment, and Crowley expects them to pass, before they speak up.

“I used to feel like I had to keep everything secret. I worried that telling my parents I was gay—I didn’t even know the word nonbinary back then—would make them lose their love for me. And I was right. And I worried that telling my friends what my parents were really like would make them freak out. I was right about that, too, though now I know that they were right to freak out. But when I finally got away from that environment, I had to learn how to be less secretive. ‘Vulnerable’ was the word my therapist used, and I hated it. I still don’t like the idea—it sounds nice, being all open and shit, but it just ends up making everyone else uncomfortable. Well, except Crowley.” They give Crowley a thumbs-up and he nods back at them. “And then eventually I learned that you guys weren’t going to suddenly start hating me, so maybe I didn’t have to try so hard to push you away.” There’s a brief moment of somber reflection, which Lori then ruins by saying, “Also, after I tried Yemenite matzo, I was freed from my narrow preconceptions of what matzah has to be.”

Mirka opens her mouth to argue, but catches herself. “Nope, I’m done arguing matzoh for today. I have freed myself from the narrow place of trying to correct your terrible matzah opinions.”

“And we’re all very proud of you,” says Yael.

Rukiye passes.

“Zira?”

“Hmm…” Aziraphale thinks. Crowley takes a moment to appreciate the way his face looks when lost in thought. _Ugh, I’m so soppy_ , he thinks, but there’s no sting there. Not now that he knows his love is returned.

“Well,” says the angel. “I spent a very, very long time believing that everyone knew what the right thing was, and everyone agreed on it. Or at least, that my superiors knew what it was, and if I had doubts, that was my own failing. And I believed that if people did the wrong thing it was because they chose to, or because they were inherently bad.”

“What a terrible philosophy,” says Lori.

“Yes, well. It was only recently—relatively speaking—that I realized that not everyone knows what the right thing to do is. I’m more confident in my own judgement than I used to be, even though it’s in direct conflict with those I used to follow. Or perhaps because. But the most important thing I learned was that I didn’t have to feel guilty about loving someone I’d been told was inherently bad.”

“You thought _Crowley_ was a bad person?” says Mirka, aghast. “I know he’s kinda prickly, but he’s basically a marshmallow. No offense,” she adds belatedly.

“Plenty taken,” he assures her.

“I believe this demonstrates Yael and Naomi’s point, that ways of thinking can trap us in very narrow places,” says Aziraphale.

“Indeed!” Naomi says. “Crowley, do you want to share something? It’s fine if you want to pass. Or just complain about being called a marshmallow.”

“Even though it’s true,” whispers Mirka. It’s a very loud whisper.

Crowley doesn’t pass, for once. There’s an idea that’s been in the back of his mind for some time now, and he feels a sudden desire to at least hint at it, see if Naomi and Yael pick up on it.

“I’m not particularly conflicted about who and what I am. Which is _not_ a marshmallow, you slanderer. But I’m starting to think that identity doesn’t have to be as constricting as I thought it did. I have more choices then I used to think.”

“Well that’s nice and cryptic,” says Lori.

“What, you wanted vulnerability? 

“Touché.”

The next person is Miriam, who asks to pass. After her comes Sam, who has been biting their lip and looking pensive ever since Yael and Naomi first raised the question. Crowley wonders if they will pass too, but they don’t.

“I always worry that I’ve missed my chance, that I’m too old for things. I had to drop out of college for a couple years, and even though I was only two years behind other people my age, I felt like I missed my chance to have the college experience. I thought I’d never learn to speak a foreign language because I didn’t start learning until I was an adult. But if I’d taken my college Spanish classes more seriously, I’d probably be pretty good by now. I began to suspect I was nonbinary when I was in my mid-twenties, but I waited until just two years ago to come out, because I felt like I was too old for it to be worth the hassle of changing my public identity. If I’d done it in college, that would be one thing, but what was the point of doing it now that I’m already old.”

“You’re only 37!” Naomi exclaims. “That’s still young, I promise you. I had Miriam at that age.”

“And now look at me!” says Miriam cheerfully.

“I know that _now_ ,” says Sam. “When I was thirty, I felt like I was too old to come out. And then when I was thirty-five, I realized that thirty was pretty young, and if I’d come out then, I’d have had five extra years of being out. But I keep making that mistake. I kept thinking I was too old to convert to Judaism, even though I’d been wanting to for years—more than fifteen years, at this point. What was the point of doing it _now_? Wouldn’t everyone think it was strange that I waited so long? So I put it off when I was in my late 20s, and then in my early thirties, and I almost kept doing it. It’s only been recently that I’ve started to realize just how, well, narrow that way of thinking is.”

“What changed your mind?” asks Mirka.

“I don’t know exactly, It’s just, one Thursday I realized I could do it, so the next night I went in for Kabbalat Shabbat, and I liked it, and I made an appointment with Rabbi Wolf, and here I am. ‘If not now, when?’”

Aziraphale looks up. “Hillel used to say that!”

Mirka gives him a strange look. “You don’t have to sound that surprised, Zira, it’s one of his most famous sayings.”

“It is?” Aziraphale blinks. “Well, I’m sure he’d be glad to know that.”

“I always liked Shammai better,” says Crowley, who had spent many a pleasant evening drinking and trading complaints with the man.

Lori rolls their eyes. “Of course you do, Crowley.”

Naomi stands up. “So, who’s ready for the meal?”

Everyone gets up to help bring dishes to the kitchen, except Yael, who is clearing space on the table. Miriam, seeing her mother still near the afikoman, frowns in concentration.

“Need help plotting?” whispers Crowley.

“Well, plan A isn’t going to work, but I still have Plan B. If I keep refilling her water glass, she’ll have to get up to use the bathroom eventually.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, we can do better than that. Let me help.”

“Fine, but no miracles.”

“I know, I know, it’s cheating. Does turning into a snake count?”

She considers this seriously. “No, snake is one of your normal shapes. So it’s not a miracle to switch back to it.”

He grins. “Excsselent.”

“Plotting, are we?” says Aziraphale from behind them. They both give a start. Crowley slinks off while Miriam whispers what he assumes is an explanation.

There’s enough furniture in the living room that it’s easy to slither under the table without being seen, and after that he has the tablecloth for cover. He slides up a table leg and starts inching along the underside of the table—probably not something a real snake could do, but it’s not _really_ a miracle. And he can spot what he’s pretty sure is the napkin-wrapped afikoman at the other end, tucked between the tablecloth and the table. It’s not the most creative hiding place, but Yael enjoys getting the watch the kids’ transparent attempts to lure both her and Naomi away from the table at the same time, long enough to snatch it.

Crowley realizes that he’s been too slow when he sees feet start to appear beneath the table and he hears chairs scrape the floor.

“Where’s Crowley?” Mirka asks.

“He said he’d be right back,” says Miriam, sounding far too innocent. Crowley is going to have to work on her deception skills. But it seems to work, because he can hear the scrape and clatter of people serving themselves, and he starts creeping forward again, until a sudden clang to his left makes him freeze. He looks over and sees a fork on the floor, and then a hand pick up the fork and then, oh no, yes, that’s Naomi, bending down to pick up her fork, and just happening to glance upward as she does so, and yes, now she’s making eye contact and Crowley has been caught. At least it’s Naomi, who recognizes him and isn’t going to scream “snake!” and cause an uproar. She raises an eyebrow, and he curses his current lack of shoulders. No way to give a casual shrug in this form. A tiny giggle escapes her as she straightens back up and disappears from his sight.

Her voice sounds almost normal as she says, “Hey hon, I need a rabbinical ruling.”

“Really.” Yael sounds nonplussed. “What about?”

“Are noodles chametz?”

Yael doesn’t answer immediately, and Crowley wonders what her face looks like. When she does speak, he can hear the smile in it.

“Ordinarily yes, but I know of at least one exception.”

“They sell Kosher for Passover pasta, right? I think it’s made from rice.” The mostly unfamiliar female voice must be the college student.

“Oh, good point,” says Yael. “Naomi was actually making an in-joke, but you’re right that you can get actual noodles that also aren’t chametz.”

“I think that’s cheating,” says Lori.

“Normally I’d say you’re just being contrarian, but in this case I agree,” says Mirka.

Crowley tunes out the rest of the conversation and turns his attention back to the table. Should he try to continue the mission despite being caught? Except now the afikoman is gone. Maybe Miriam used the distraction as cover to snatch it herself. He snakes back the way he came, using a very minor miracle to ensure no one spots him, then casually saunters back into the room to take his seat at the table.

“Oh, there you are,” says Yael, face perfectly calm. “We were wondering where you’d gone.” _Now_ he can shrug, so he does. Miriam gives him a quick thumbs-up—apparently she succeeded after all.

Dinner is always a chaotic affair at the Lipskys’ seder, with people switching seats around depending on who they want to talk with. Right now, Lori, Mirka, and the college students are clustered at one end of the table, arguing about American politics—they seem to be in agreement, which somehow is making them all argue harder—Rukiye is telling Aziraphale and Miriam about her plans for the grand opening, and Yael and Naomi are talking to Sam about the books the rabbi has suggested they read.

“And how are you liking the rest of it so far?”

They brighten. “It’s great. I was nervous at first that people would be judgey or weird, but everyone’s been really nice and welcoming. Extremely welcoming.”

Crowley snorts, and Sam smiles.

“Yeah, it was a little overwhelming at first, but I like it a lot. I think I mentioned before that I’m estranged from my parents, and that’s made things weird with the rest of my family too. And I just moved here a few months ago. So it’s been really nice to feel like I have a community.”

Crowley looks from Sam to Naomi. “Are some sort of orphaned stranger magnet? Do you have some kind of sixth sense for this stuff?”

Sam looks confused, and Yael gives Crowley a gently reproving look.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “Didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, more than half the people here have been kicked out of their families. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get adopted too.”

“I can think of worse fates,” says Sam. 

When everyone is done eating and the dishes have been moved to the kitchen, it’s time to ransom the afikoman. Miriam’s briefly at a loss to think of something she actually wants. Crowley and Aziraphale have been banned from the negotiating process after a series of offers that, in retrospect, were perhaps not things that normal humans would offer or deliver, so it’s up to Naomi and Yael to suggest things, none of which seem to be tempting enough for Miriam.

“Actually!” she says, “Can we go camping this summer?”

“We do that every summer, but sure,” says Naomi.

“Yeah, but this time I want Zira and Crowley to come too.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange horrified looks.

“We can’t accept those terms on their behalf,” says Yael.

“No,” says Crowley.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea…” Aziraphale adds.

“Please? Just for one weekend?” Miriam leans forward and whispers “You can use magic if you need to.”

Then, in a louder voice, “Anyway, you were just telling me earlier today that you’ve spent tons of time living in tents.”

Crowley sighs. He knows they’re going to lose this battle. “Let’s just say yes and get on with it.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I suppose we have to. But I’m beginning to regret helping you obtain the afikoman.”

Naomi, Yael, and Crowley all stare at him in astonishment.

“ _You_ stole it?” says Crowley.

“I know you wouldn’t cheat,” says Yael, “But I was watching the entire time Crowley was, er, creating a distraction.”

Aziraphale hmphs. “Really, none of you gives my sleight of hand the credit it deserves.”

“Hey, I _like_ your magic tricks!” Naomi’s protest seems to mollify the angel.

“I know, and your appreciation is extremely gratifying, my dear.”

Crowley leans over and whispers in Aziraphale’s ear.

“First cheating and now theft? The humans are a bad influence on you,” he says with gleeful approval. Aziraphale gives him a look of fond exasperation and a kiss.

There’s the third cup of wine and some singing, and then Miriam opens the door for Elijah—Naomi and Yael giggle at Crowley’s muttered imprecations—and then the fourth cup, and then more singing. Crowley would never admit it, but he’s rather fond of Chad Gadya. He likes that Death loses.

*****

And then it’s “Next year in Jerusalem!” and the formal seder is over and everyone just hangs around chatting. Rukiye leaves immediately, saying, “It’s not that I’m eager to leave, it’s just well past a baker’s bedtime.” The college students and Sam leave next, and after they’re gone, Crowley turns to Lori and Mirka.

“Are you staying here tonight?”

Lori looks puzzled. “Um, yes? We usually do, when we come visit.”

“No, I mean…There is something we should tell you, Zira and I, and we wanted to do it tomorrow.”

“Tell us about what?” Lori asks, then holds up a hand to forestall any answer. “No, wait, I think I know.”

They look at Mirka, then back at Crowley, and slowly shake their head, their face grave.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

They start to say something else, but the facade cracks, and they can’t keep a straight face anymore.

“Lori!” Mirka scolds. “They’re trying to tell us something important.” She bites her lip.

“You’re getting married? No, wait, you’re already married and you’re getting a divorce. And then getting remarried.”

Crowley exchanges a baffled look with Aziraphale, while Mirka and Lori laugh. 

“This is actually a serious matter,” says Aziraphale.

Lori mimes shock. “Your relationship isn’t serious? No wonder you’re getting a divorce.”

“Oh for Hell’s sake,” snaps Crowley. He takes his glasses off. “We’re not human, okay? And you’re both very annoying.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” says Mirka. “We knew that.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Lori. “I never knew we were annoying.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” says Aziraphale, and the two laugh harder.

Eventually they calm down, and Lori says, “No, really, we knew you weren’t human. But we’re glad you decided to tell us! It’s been kinda awkward pretending for the last year.”

Crowley throws up his hands. “Why do we even try?”

Aziraphale frowns. “Only the past year?”

“Yeah, we kinda guessed when that guy hit you with his bicycle and you didn’t even get dirty. And then when I broke my ankle and the fracture somehow miraculously disappeared after you made it to the emergency room. They had to do a whole extra round of X-rays and everything.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Mirka shrugs. “Don’t ask questions of fairy tales,” she says in Yiddish. Then, in English, “Besides, you’re way less weird than the witch I used to know. Or the troll. Or the magic fish. Or the meteorite. Or the—“ she cuts off her recitation when Lori gently nudges her. “Childhood was interesting,” she finishes.

“Anyway, we look forward to hearing the whole story tomorrow,” says Lori. “But I think I’m peopled-out right now, so I’m going to go fold out the couch.”

“Should I stay down here?” asks Mirka.

“Nah, you know you don’t count as people. In that way, I mean.”

“But we do?” says Crowley.

“You might not be human, but you’re still people. Which is normally a good thing, but right now I need some quiet time.”

*****

Aziraphale retires to their room with a book. But it’s a warm night and Crowley isn’t ready to sleep yet, so he goes up to the roof, seeking some quiet time of his own. It must have rained during the seder, because the smell of damp foliage covers up the usual tang of New York. He waves a hand to dry off the chairs and sits, enjoying the gentle spinning in his head, looking up at the sky. The air is clearer than usual, and he can make out a few dim stars through the light pollution.

He hears a sound and turns to see Yael climbing up.

“I’m not sulking,” he says. “I’m fine. I mean, I actually am fine, not I’m saying I’m fine. I’m in a good mood! I realize that the more I try to convince you of this the less true it sounds, which I found very useful in my old line of work, but I’m not lying.”

Yael smiles. “I didn’t actually realize you were up here,” she says. “I just wanted some fresh air and I thought it might be nice up here.”

“Oh. Should I go?”

“No, only if you want to.”

They sit in silence for a while. For once, Crowley doesn’t feel the need to fill it. Of course, there’s no real silence in a city, but distant traffic is not the same as conversation or music. It’s restful, for a while. Eventually he does speak up.

“Mind if I ask a question?”

“Of course. Of course I don’t mind, I mean. I can’t promise you the most sober answer, though.”

“Why is this a holiday?”

“Why is Pesach a holiday?”

“Yeah, what makes it important?”

“Why do we celebrate our freedom? Is that your question?”

“Yes, no, I mean, there’ve been so many times your people have survived something. Like the Amake—Amalekites! Or the whole thing with Esther, yes I know that’s a holiday too, but it’s a very silly one.”

“So, why is Pesach such an important holiday?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Hmm. There’s the obvious answer, which is that it’s in the Torah and we’re commanded to celebrate it. And it does mark the beginning of our covenant with God, as a people. Oh, don’t roll your eyes, I’m thinking out loud here.”

“It’s dark and you’re looking in the other direction, how do you know I’m rolling my eyes?”

“You spent thirteen years wearing sunglasses around us. I can _hear_ your eyes roll.”

Crowley knows that’s not actually within the scope of human abilities, but he’s willing to let it go for now. “But the holiday doesn’t focus on that part, you mostly talk about slavery, and the plagues, and the Red Sea.”

“We do also mention the covenant, you’re just already hammered by then. But okay, yes, we talk a lot about slavery and suffering.” She’s silent for a few minutes and Crowley wonders if she’s dozing off. He’s noticed that drinking mostly makes Yael sleepy. But then she starts speaking again. “I think it’s about hope.”

Crowley snorts. “‘Ss’a bit trite, doncha think?”

“Oh hush, if you wanted a serious answer you’d have waited until I was sober. Anyway, I wasn’t done.” She runs a hand along the railing. “Knowing that something has happened before makes it seem more possible. It’s a different kind of hope. We were slaves, and then we were freed. Before that happened, how could we even know liberation was possible? But now we do.”

“Not everyone was freed, though.”

“No. It came too late for everyone who was beaten and worked to death. And for all the children thrown into the Nile. And even after—the plagues may have passed us over, and the waters parted for us, but it’s not like everything was perfect. There was the battle with Amalekites, the forty years in the desert, and of course everything that’s come since. You probably know some of it better than I do. And there’s still this broken world we live in. But now we know to hope for freedom and a just world. It’s worth working for, because it can happen.”

She reaches out and plucks a leaf from Naomi’s forsythia. “There’s a reason we celebrate Pesach in the spring. Well, in this hemisphere, anyway. Not just because it’s a time of rebirth. But because it comes every year.” She rubs the leaf between her fingers. “When it’s the week after Purim it’s still cold and wet, and there aren’t any leaves on the trees, and I’m depressed like I get every winter. But I know that by the time Pesach comes, the leaves will have come out, and the azalea will be starting to bloom, and everything will smell green and alive, at least up here on the roof. And I know that the depression will lift when it does, because it happened last year. I can keep working on asylum and resettlement, even though we lose too many cases, because I know that we’ll win some, and people like Rukiye will get to live the lives they want. That’s the kind of hope we can have.”

She looks up and meets his eyes in the dim light. “Every year, we’re reminded that just as we have suffered, so too do others suffer. And just as we were liberated, so must we work for everyone’s freedom. Because we know it’s possible, because it was given to us, we have that responsibility to give others that hope and freedom as well.”

“Huh.” He leans back to look at the sky. “That’s not a bad answer for someone who drank four cups of wine tonight.”

“Thank you. You know, Passover was always my favorite holiday. When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine a life away from my mother. I didn’t think it was a thing I could want. I thought this was how things were, and more importantly, how they _should_ be. Any unhappiness I felt was because I was flawed. But once a year I would sit at a table and tell the story of our liberation. Not our ancestors’, but _ours_. I would sit and imagine a world beyond the narrow straits. I’d say ‘Next year in Jerusalem. Next year, may all be free’ and I’d be filled with this sense of joy and wonder. I didn’t realize why until much later.”

“I just like the drinking,” Crowley says. She flicks the leaf at him.

“Sure, Crowley. Because you need to sit through hours of prayer and song and ritual and argument just to drink some wine. You couldn’t just stay home and drink. No, don’t answer that. I’m glad you came that first time and I’m grateful that you’ve come back every year.”

He shrugs. “Jerusalem’s fine, if you like that sort of thing, but I’d rather be here.”

“Me too. Next year, may we all be together—you, me, Zira, Naomi, Miriam, and anyone who needs a place at the table.”

“All your adopted strangers.”

“Yes. And next year, may we all be free.”

**Author's Note:**

> Who else is sad about missing out on a seder this year? ~~Hopefully my rabbi or someone will in fact organize one over Zoom, because eating my matzoh and maror alone in my room is going to make asking "Why is this night different from other nights?" feel a little depressing.~~ Update, a week later: my rabbi has in fact organized a zoom seder, so now I just gotta learn to make my own charoset. 
> 
> Solidarity to everyone else facing social distance Passover. We will get through this.


End file.
